


Aftermath

by DeadshotMusketeer



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 04:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadshotMusketeer/pseuds/DeadshotMusketeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Complete.  One shot.  Aramis centred. Mildly angsty.  It's moments after an ambush and the Insperables are pulling themselves together, only Aramis is finding it harder than the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

 

 

**Aftermath**

by DeadshotMusketeer 

* * *

 

Aramis shifted in his saddle to ease the soreness in his back. It was protesting loudly with each step of his horse, and there was an ache behind his eyes that would not subside.   It was matter-of-course to be attacked or ambushed while in the service of the King, especially while delivering messages of vital importance, but some days it could be much more exhausting than others. So Aramis was thankful their mission had been uneventful thus far. He yawned, stretching one arm out beside him and rolling his head back and forth to alleviate some of the kinks in his neck and shoulders. Nothing was helping and his exhaustion was growing. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that his brothers looked no better than he felt and he did not want to disturb them. His shift on lookout was nearly over, so he decided he could hold out a little longer.   He let his eyes close for a few moments to let them rest, then he used the pommel on his saddle to hoist himself up further in his seat, hoping the movement would help rejuvenate him.

He had only taken his attention away from their surroundings for mere moments, but in that time, someone had broken from the tree line.

The bandit was already taking aim by the time Aramis slid from his horse. “Ambush!” he bellowed, as more emerged from the forest, swords out and pistols drawn.

He pulled out his own sword the instant his feet touched the ground and ran straight for the bandits, his personal discomfort vanishing instantly.

“To the right!”

He heard Athos scream the warning and heard the bang of a musket, but he was already engaged in battle and couldn’t spare a look. But once his foe was dispatched, he anxiously searched around and noticed his brothers scrambling, slipping and sliding in the mud, and trying to get their bearings after being forced to fight without warning. It was chaos.

“It’s my fault,” breathed Aramis, but he had no time for guilt because another bandit was charging directly toward him.

When the battle ended, and the blood and dust had settled, Aramis let his legs give out beneath him and dropped to the ground in a relieved heap.  He was thankful it was over, but even more so, he was grateful all his brothers had survived, despite his failure to warn them. He was renowned amongst the musketeers for his ability to sense danger. That overwhelming aura that someone was watching only gave his brothers mere seconds to prepare, but sometimes, just being ready for battle meant the difference between life and death.

He stared at the distant horizon and shuddered at the thought of what could have happened; his heart beat irregular, his hands trembling minutely. He tilted his head back, ignoring the tightness in his neck, and looked to the sky.   He remembered it being bright blue when the ambush had begun, but now it resided above him a burnt orange, fused with shades of red and dark purple.   He closed his eyes and drew in a breath meant to invigorate, but instead, it only managed to siphon his energy more.  He swayed to his left as his body yearned for sleep, but caught himself with a well-placed hand on the ground before completely toppling over. 

“It’s your turn, Aramis.”

At hearing Athos’ words, he dropped his head and stared into his lap. Burdened by both exhaustion and a heavy conscience, Aramis braced his hands on the ground on either side of him and pushed himself up, swaying slightly before reaching full height. 

“You all right?”

Aramis peered over his shoulder to see Athos leaning heavily against a tree and lumbered over, his legs feeling much heavier than they should. “Still standing,” he replied with a weak smile, as he ran a hand down his face. “And yourself?”

Athos shifted his weight against the tree that was, without contention, holding him upright.  “Too spent to know for sure,” he yawned.  “But I’ll be sure to let you know if a situation presents itself.”

Aramis surveyed his friend nonetheless. “Don’t let your pride get the better of you,” he chided. “I’m only content to let you lick your wounds in private so long as there is nothing serious.”

“Hm.”

“Hm, what?”

“You look as if you’ve been dragged through hell and back,” noted Athos. “Perhaps you should take your own advice.” 

“Maybe so,” he replied, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to ease the ache behind them. “But it’s my turn, as you so graciously pointed out, and I will not allow myself to fail in my duties.”   _Again,_ he thought to himself. Then, Aramis removed his hat and rubbed the back of his head.

Athos knew what that meant. “Out with it,” he stated.

Aramis drew in a deep breath, considered his next words carefully, and then forced the air from his lungs as he spoke. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should have seen them.”

Athos raised an eyebrow. “Seen them _hiding_?”

“Yes,” Aramis said, dropping his head. “I was on lookout. It was my responsibility to be alert, but I was exhausted, as were all of you, and my concentration paid the price.”

“Then you should have said something then, so you wouldn’t have to apologize now,” stated Athos.

“You’re right,” replied Aramis. “So again, I’m sorry.” 

Athos studied his friend. “It happens to all of us. You’re not perfect and no one expects you to be so.”

“An hour or so ago I would have taken offense to those words, but now I’m not so sure I would disagree.”

Athos could almost see the shame dripping from Aramis by the way he hung his head and had lost the child-like quality of his smile. He knew what Aramis had to do to get right with himself, and it wasn’t hearing platitudes, but he threw one out there anyway hoping to elicit at least a little cheer in his friend. “What doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger,” he said, only partially in jest. Aramis smiled, so Athos reciprocated with one of his own, then he put a hand on his shoulder and pointed out toward the battlefield. “And look, we seemed to all have survived.”

Aramis looked over at Porthos and d’Artagnan. After the battle, they’d taken to the ground just shortly before he had, and had given him the thumbs up in show of good health before doing so. Knowing that, coupled with seeing them now resting peacefully, his guilt eased, but only slightly. “Be it so,” he said, turning back to Athos with a weary smile. “But it could have ended much differently.”

“Perhaps,” shrugged Athos. “But it didn’t.”

Aramis closed his eyes and shook his head while pinching the bridge of his nose. “I missed it,” he said, remorsefully. “We were lucky no one was killed.”

“It wasn’t luck,” corrected Athos, with finality. “It was skill.” He pushed off the tree and adjusted the brim of his hat. “You look absolutely miserable, so let me help you gather our things.”  

Aramis stepped back and shook his head lightly. He’d let himself get distracted by his own discomfort, so he felt undeserving of any benevolence toward it now. “I’m well enough,” he said. “And keeping busy will allow me to work through my guilt. Consider it my penance.”

Athos was very familiar with his friend’s coping strategies. He’d been there after Savoy, after Marzac’s return, and after Isabelle’s death, and he’d seen the way Aramis withdrew into himself to find comfort, or turned to God for guidance. And since he’d seemingly always found his way back, Athos felt no need to deny the marksman’s request now. “If you think that will work,” he said, consenting with a nod. “Go make peace with yourself if you must. I will allow _you_ to lick your wounds in private, but don’t make me regret this decision. Sort yourself out now while you can. And be assured, I will be watching.”  

Aramis placed a hand over his heart and bowed. “You have my word.”

Athos reluctantly waved him off with the tiniest shake of his hand, so Aramis took his leave. He saw Porthos lying on the ground between two dead bandits, his arms outstretched and his knees bent up to the sky so he decided to take a closer look.  

“Porthos?” he asked, looking down at his friend.

His large friend waved a hand lazily in the air in lieu of a verbal remark, and Aramis grabbed it. “What are you doing?” Porthos asked, trying to pull his appendage back.

“Hold still,” ordered Aramis, as he palpated the knuckles of his friend’s bruised hand. “You have a tendency to use your fists more often than not, and I want to make sure you haven’t broken or dislocated any of your fingers again.”

“Aw, I’m good,” drawled Porthos, pulling his hand out of the marksman’s grasp.

“Yes, yes, you’re always good,” replied Aramis. “Now get up, I want to get a better look at you.”

Porthos grudgingly got to his feet and turned around slowly. And when Aramis was content, Porthos returned the favour. “Now how ‘bout you?” he asked, spinning Aramis around before he could argue. 

“Satisfied?” asked Aramis, when he came to a stop.

“No,” replied Porthos. “Just ‘cause I can’t see anything wrong with you, doesn’t mean something isn’t going on in that head of yours, cause honestly, you look like a pile of manure that’s been left out in the rain.”

“Well, if my presence displeases you I can remove myself from your view.” 

Porthos reached out a hand to stop his friend from leaving.   “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said.

“I know,” sighed Aramis. “Sorry. I’m just a little edgy right now.” 

“I can see that,” stated Porthos. “You’ve got that funny look in your eyes. Like you’ve gotten lost in your own head.” 

Aramis forced a smile. “You know me too well, old friend.”

“Peas in a pod, we are,” replied Porthos. “Now what gives?” 

Aramis shifted uncomfortably. He knew his brothers deserved to hear the truth, and he had no issue admitting his fault, but he didn’t need their forgiveness or their assurances, he needed his own. He also did not want them to know how tired and sore he actually was, for they would insist on helping and that would negate everything he was trying to do to get past this. “I should have been more attentive,” he sighed. “Why don’t we just leave it at that.”

“Is there any chance I can get through that thick skull of yours?” asked Porthos, knowing all too well what his friend was about to do. “Stop you from mopping around and punishing yourself for something you have no right to feel guilty about?” 

“No,” replied Aramis, not surprised by Porthos astuteness. “Now sit back down and rest. I will do so myself after I have achieved my own personal absolution, and I can’t do that without a little penance.”

“What if I punch you? It’d be quicker?”

“No,” replied Aramis, again, unable to stop himself from smiling this time. “Now sit.”

Porthos grumbled softly as he sat, and then he looked up at Aramis with a thoughtful air.   “Do you remember the first time we met? It was right after you’d returned from Savoy, and Treville wouldn’t let you back in the field yet?”

Aramis stared at the ground and shifted nervously as he crossed his arms over his chest. He did not want to go down this road, but he also knew there was no stopping Porthos. “Yes,” he said, reluctantly. “You’d just arrived and I was assigned as your training officer.”

“Remember what you said? That first lesson you taught me?”

Aramis flicked his eyes away momentarily as he adjusted his stance. “Jog my memory.”

“A musketeer is only as good as his last battle,” Porthos replied, mindfully. “And if he couldn’t continue to prove his worth, he’d end up abandoned.” It wasn’t until Porthos had learned about Marzac that he fully understood what Aramis had meant. Marzac had walked away from Savoy, from the Musketeers, out of shame and guilt, and was abandoned by those he once thought brothers and labeled a coward. 

Aramis cleared his throat as his unease escalated. “What does that have to do with anything?” he sighed, irritably.

Porthos shook his head slowly with a disheartened smile. He knew Aramis understood what he was talking about; he was just trying to avoid the topic by feigning aloofness. “You think you failed,” he said. “You’re trying to make up for it. To yourself at least.”

“That’s nonsense,” replied Aramis.

“Atonement. Proving your worth. Whatever you’re doing makes no difference to me,” stated Porthos, with a shrug.  Then he wrapped his arms around his knees and looked up at him. “Because this changes nothing. You’re still good in my book, and I’ll always feel safer when it’s you out there on lookout. That sixth sense of yours has saved our hides more times than I can remember.”  

Aramis took his words to heart, but he’d already made up his mind, and no one, other than himself, could convince him other wise. So, he thanked him for the kind words and backed away, leaving Porthos only hoping if he had gotten through to him. 

Porthos let him go, but decided to watch his friend carefully over the next while. 

Aramis went to check on d’Artagnan next, and found him several feet away, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his folded arms and suddenly, a memory flashed into his mind. 

_Aramis threw his knife across the field and it landed between the shoulder blades of a bandit creeping up behind d’Artagnan. The young Gascon would probably never know how close to death he had been, for when he turned around to take on another attacker, the bandit was already on the ground and Aramis was dealing with another one._

_And with great difficulty too, for the marksman’s new opponent was twice his size and wielding a broadsword._

_Aramis was barely able to deflect the larger, heavier weapon with his rapier, and found himself stumbling under the force. He tried to spin away, but his foot slipped in the mud and the tip of the bandit’s sword caught him across his left arm, causing him to fall completely to the ground. His only saving grace was that d’Artagnan had seen it and was there in time to dispatch the husky bandit with a clean shot through his chest._

_But by doing so, the young Gascon had left himself vulnerable to the bandit he had been fighting and received a quick slash across the back of his leg._

_Aramis forgot about his own wound and scrambled to his feet, wanting to check on his friend. But d’Artagnan seemingly hadn’t noticed because he continued to fight without pause._  

Aramis scolded himself for not checking on him sooner and hurried his approach. “How are you doing?” he asked, before he had even reached him.

“Just some scarred leather and an insatiable urge to sleep,” replied the young musketeer, lifting his head just enough to nod at the marksman.   But the typical youthful features of his face were marred by concern when he saw his friend. Aramis, typically invigorated by a favourable battle, looked outright miserable. He was going to inquire about his welfare, but Aramis seemed pre-occupied.

“I think your leg would disagree with that assessment,” Aramis said, examining d’Artagnan’s right thigh. “Does it hurt?”

Confused, the Gascon looked back and saw a tear in his pants right behind his knee. “Didn’t even notice that,” he replied. “And it didn’t hurt a bit until you pointed it out.”

“Glad to be of service, then,” Aramis said with an anxious smile, pulling open the slit for a better look. Relief swept through him the moment he realized it wasn’t anything serious, but it wasn’t enough to quell his unease. He stared at the laceration for several beats, lost in thought as he prodded around the edges. The wound was teasing him that things could have been much worse.

“Well?” implored d’Artagnan.

Aramis shook himself and then removed his hat to rub the back of his head. “Looks superficial,” he replied, pulling a strip of cloth from his pocket to tie around his friend’s leg. “Must have just nicked you. Let me know if it bothers you.”

D’Artagnan noted a distant expression on his friend’s face, and that he had an air of sadness in his voice. “What is it?” he asked.

“I’m sorry.”

D’Artagnan raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

Aramis let out a soft laugh, having now heard the same question for the second time. “I saw this happen and I’m sorry I didn’t check on you sooner.”

“I didn’t even know it had happened,” replied d’Artagnan. “And you said it yourself, it’s only superficial, so you have no reason to feel guilty.”

Aramis sat fully on the ground and rested his arms on his knees. “Then I’m sorry for almost getting you all killed,” he said with sincerity, covering his heart with his hand. “I was distracted, and I didn’t give you fair warning of the attack.”

D’Artagnan frowned and rolled over to sit up. “It’s not like you saw them in the trees and _decided_ not to tell us,” he said, placing a hand on Aramis’ shoulder.   “So there’s nothing to feel guilty about. Now help me up and I’ll help you gather our equipment.”

But as he started to rise, Aramis gently coaxed him back to the ground, and instead, pushed himself up. D’Artagnan saw how he needed to brace his hands on his thighs to get up and how unsteady he was once on his feet. “I insist,” he said, trying to rise once again.

“No, I insist,” Aramis replied. “Rest your leg. You don’t want to make it worse when you don’t have to.”

D’Artagnan tried again. “You said it yourself, it’s not that bad. And you look as if you’re going to collapse.”

Aramis sighed as he again gently urged d’Artagnan back onto the ground. “Leg wound, deep or not, trumps exhaustion and guilt any day. Now sit and rest,” he ordered, and then he placated him with a smile. “But if I do pass out, then by all means I give you permission to fulfill my duties. I promise.”

“Don’t deflect this with humour,” d’Artagnan replied, despite his small chuckle. “We don’t need a martyr.”

Aramis challenged him with a raised brow.

“Point taken,” replied d’Artagnan. “We’re all guilty of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

“Grant me this, please?” asked Aramis, his need to suffer swelling greatly as he looked at his friend. The Gascon’s wound may have been minor, but that didn’t matter to Aramis. What mattered was that he’d been hurt on his watch. “It will help me clear my conscious.”

D’Artagnan yielded grudgingly. “You sure you want this?” he asked.

“I am sure,” replied Aramis.

“I’ll be watching you,” said d’Artagnan. “I won’t forget your promise to take over your duties if you pass out.”

“As I will be watching you when it is next your turn to gather equipment,” stated Aramis, then he turned and walked away.

But he was moving very slowly. His exhaustion was starting to overwhelm him, his legs were beginning to shake, and he was finding it difficult to keep his head up straight. However, there wasn’t much daylight left, so he said a little prayer to grant him strength, put on the most affable guise he could muster, and pushed onward.

Bodies and accouterments were strewn about, dashing any hopes of finding their equipment quickly and without any trouble.  It was customary, for this inseparable group, to take turns retrieving their effects after each battle.  And the succession of articles found had consequences, so it was with very careful manoeuvring that Aramis scouted for the first forsaken pistol, sword, knife or article of uniform urgently used as a weapon. 

He scanned the areas around the fallen bodies first, and it wasn’t long before he came across the first sword.  He recognized the hilt immediately, which elicited in him a coy smirk.  Athos typically had the largest purse, so Aramis felt no shame as he flicked the sword upward and caught it in his hand.  “Athos!” he called, brandishing the weapon over his head like a prized trophy. “Libations are on you tonight.”

“Of course,” replied the Comte, his eye roll evident in his voice.

Porthos pumped a fist in the air while d’Artagnan let out a quiet whoop of joy.   

With more weariness than he was willing to expose, Aramis made his way over to Athos, dropped the sword at his feet with a smile and set back out to amass their other wayward weapons and uniforms. 

Remembering where he last used one of his own pistols, he strode with purpose in the opposite direction in search of something that belonged to Porthos. After the last battle, Aramis remembered his friend searching specifically for his knife- as pay back for drinking the last of their ale the night before- and the Spaniard remembered quite clearly his friend’s smugness as he had returned it, so it was with no hesitation whatsoever that Aramis made his way toward Porthos.

With a smile just shy of wickedness, Aramis reached down and withdrew a dagger from the chest of a bandit lying next to his friend, and dropped it by his side with alacrity.

“Oh, you did that on purpose,” said Porthos, wrenching his face in frustration.

“For which I feel no remorse,” replied Aramis, bowing with a flourish of his hand.  “Consider your previous service paid in full. And I shall relish watching you collect our gear after the next ambush.” 

After that, the banter ceased as Aramis returned to his duty. He sighed deeply and massaged the ache in his lower back, and then he crisscrossed his way around the bodies of the fallen bandits toward the furthest edge of the battlefield to begin his search again. 

As he walked, he let the unpleasant memories of the ambush flood his mind as part of his penance.

_Bandits were everywhere. Chaos surrounded him as muskets were fired and swords were swung. But fuelled by the innate sense of all soldiers, Aramis fought with purpose and proficiency. And with his earlier guilt washed away by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he moved on instinct as he threw his cape over one bandit to block his attack while kicking out his leg to dispatch another. And to his left, he saw Porthos use a rock for leverage as he jumped onto the back of a shooter causing him to drop his pistol._

_And as Aramis spun and pulled out his reserve pistol, he caught a glimpse of d’Artagnan coming to the aid of Athos who was fighting off two opponents at once. Athos took a hit on the shoulder from the hilt of a sword, but unfortunately, Aramis did not have the time to be concerned with every slash, hit or bludgeon his brothers received, because another bandit was closing fast upon him._

_He lunged to the side and swiped his sword at his attacker’s feet, then fired off a shot, which landed right where he intended- just left of center chest. The bandit dropped but was quickly replaced by another. There was no time to digest his actions, it was kill or be killed, so Aramis flipped the pistol in his hand and smashed the butt end into the bandit’s face, more than once to ensure he would not get up again._

_He spared a fleeting glance to find his brothers, and noticed that most of the bandits were now on the ground and his fellow musketeers were still standing. He took a moment to breathe, then noticing a bandit fumbling to load his harquebus, he charged forward with an almost irrational disregard for his own well-being._

Aramis shuddered. The memory had deepened his exhaustion, and compounded by his guilt and need to atone, he nearly staggered.

As he regained his composure, he suddenly remembered his earlier misstep, and grabbed his upper left arm.  In a frenzy, he fumbled around till he felt a large, ragged tear in the supple leather of his doublet.  He reached his hand inside the hole and was overcome with relief when his hand came back with nothing more than the remnants of a cold sweat on his skin. 

“It seems luck has followed you into battle once again,” remarked Athos, having seen his friend’s reaction.

Aramis turned back. “I would hardly call myself lucky,” he replied.  “Do you see this hole?  I’m not even sure my own needlework can fix this.”   

“Although your concern for your apparel is impressive, I’d like to find shelter before the night completely overtakes us.  So move along; we’ve still a mission to complete.”

“And find food,” came Porthos voice.

“Yes.  Food,” added d’Artagnan.

Aramis glared at each of them in turn.  “Am I mad, or is it possible to hate three people at the same time and equally as much?”  He paused for dramatic effect.  “And of course, I ask with the utmost respect?”

“It is quite possible,” replied Athos.  “I can honestly say I loathed the three of you on quite the same level just last week when it was my turn.”

“Good,” stated Aramis.  “Just wanted to make sure I was still lucid.” Then, before he set back to work, he looked back at each of them with annoyance. “I thought I told you all to rest?”

“And I thought I told you I would be watching you,” challenged Athos.

“And I haven’t forgotten your promise either,” replied d’Artagnan.

“Yes, yes, my guardian angels,” smiled Aramis, as he spread his arms to include all of his brothers. “And as for you,” he said, specifically to the young Gascon. “I have no intention of passing out, so you can surrender that little fantasy of yours.”

Leaving them to their own devices, Aramis began to skim the outer edge of the field.  Spotting his other pistol near the bandit with the grotesquely bashed face, he made his way across the field to retrieve it. Years ago he might have felt squeamish at the site of the bandit’s deformity, but now he merely felt complacent by the sight.   He’d seen too much over the years to be affected by blood and guts, but as he knelt beside the dead man he _did_ feel- more so than normal, remorse.   He traced a cross on the man’s forehead with his thumb, and then drew in a deep breath before closing his eyes in brief prayer.  For this man had perished by Aramis’ own abetment, and the musketeer was too tired and guilt ridden to stave off the heavy heart it saddened him with. 

After that, it took surprisingly little time for Aramis to find the rest of their gear, and by the time he was nearly finished, his brothers were all on their feet and standing near the edge of the forest.  He had known they were watching him the whole time, and he’d tried to keep up a somewhat contented façade for them, but he was afraid he couldn’t do it much longer. His exhaustion was too heavy, and it was smothering his ability to rise above his guilt. All he could hope for now, was an uneventful ride to the closest inn where he could sit with his brothers, eat a hot meal and fall asleep with an empty wine glass in one hand and The Good Book in the other.

He just had to last long enough.

Over by the forest edge, his brothers watched him with unease, d’Artagnan in particular.   “Is it not time we stop this?” asked the Gascon, nodding toward Aramis.

“Won’t let you help him, eh?” laughed Porthos; his eyes defying his mirth as he carefully watched Aramis slowly make his way around.  

D’Artagnan shook his head with a frown. “I know he feels responsible, but…”

“He holds himself accountable to a higher power, remember?” stated Athos, looking up and pointing to the sky. “He’s punishing himself.”

“He has no reason to,” argued d’Artagnan.

“I know that, and you know that,” explained Athos. “But it’s a tricky business getting between a man and his demons. Sometimes you have to let a man deal with them in their own way. And when they fall, you make sure to be there to catch them.”

D’Artagnan considered the times he’d been there to catch Athos, and nodded his understanding.

“Aw, he’ll be fine,” Porthos said, his eyes still following Aramis. “He’ll figure it out. Aramis always lands on his feet. 

D’Artagnan glanced quickly over his shoulder at the Spaniard. “I’m afraid he’s going to fall _off_ his feet,” he said, watching as Aramis struggled to latch his harquebus.

“He is looking a little irregular,” noted Athos, scrutinizing the marksman from under the brim of his hat. “Maybe it is time to bring an end to this vindication.” Then, he watched Aramis complete his task and move on without despair. “Or perhaps he just needs more time.”

D’Artagnan looked again at Aramis and then back to his brothers. “Are you sure?”

“Mostly sure,” shrugged Athos.

“Yeah,” nodded Porthos, finding it more difficult to hide the uncertainty in his voice. “Almost definitely sure.”

Then, noticing the marksman moving laboriously toward them, Porthos could not contain his unease any longer and quickly met him halfway. “You all right?” he asked, positioning himself so his friend could not pass.

Aramis looked at him, his despondent eyes no longer very well concealed. “Better, but still exhausted.”

“Naw, I’m not buying it,” he said.

Aramis shrugged the concern away and started toward the forest. “I don’t need you to _buy_ it,” he said with indifference. “Now, I’m going to gather the horses. Be ready to leave soon.”

Porthos dismissed the affront and went after his friend. He passed him at the edge of the forest and gave a loud whistle. He knew better than to outright force his friend to stop, so he pointed toward the disturbance he caused and lightly pushed Aramis forward. “There ya go,” he said.  “You grab that one and I’ll get the rest.”

Aramis lurched forward, half wanting to let himself tumble to the ground if not for a least a moment’s rest.  “I could have…”

But he was unable to finish his statement due to a loud grumble emanating from his friend’s chest. “Don’t,” stated Porthos.

Aramis frowned at his friend’s succinct response, but he was too tired to engage in further conversation, so he simply did as he was told.  He found the horse quickly, and a few moments later, Aramis was exiting the forest to find that everyone was readying himself to depart.

Content his friends were suitably well **,** he prepared to mount his own horse.  With one foot in the stirrup, and ready to heave upward, he suddenly felt an overwhelming need to lie down.  Knowing that was not an option, he compromised and let his head fall against the saddle, using it as pillow as he took a moment’s rest. When he closed his eyes, he felt the blood drain from his face and his knees suddenly buckled. He caught himself before anyone noticed, but then an intense nausea invaded his stomach along with a pounding in his head.

Unable to think clearly, he believed that if he could just get on his horse, he would feel better.

But the next thing he knew, someone was slapping him on the cheek.

Startled, he swung his arms and tried to make violent contact with the person hitting him, but he quickly realized he was not only lying on the ground, and the hand slapping him belonged to Athos.

“Calm yourself,” came a soothing voice from over his shoulder.  He tilted his head back and saw Porthos standing above him, hands braced on his knees as he leaned over.

Aramis blinked heavily as he tried to acclimate himself. It only took a moment, and then he gave them all a nod to assure them he was fine.

“You fainted,” Athos stated, dryly. 

“Said it wouldn’t happen, hm?” teased d’Artagnan, despite himself.

“I didn’t faint,” replied Aramis, defensively.  “I merely decided to take a sudden nap.”

“Call it what you like,” deadpanned Athos.  “But for the record, taking a short and suddenly unexpected nap is called fainting.”

D’Artagnan leaned over his friend and stared down, his arms folded defiantly across his chest. “You _did_ faint,” he said. “After promising me you wouldn’t, you actually did. What if that had happened while you were on your horse? What then? Now, I understand you’re trying to absolve yourself- we’ve all been there- but maybe now is not the time. You’re obviously unwell and you need to deal with that first.”

Aramis raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think I was actually going to pass out.” But when he tried to sit up, Athos pushed him back down. Apparently his dressing-down was not finished, and his leader emphasized this by holding him still with a hand on his chest and a steadfast stare.  

“But at one point you did know,” challenged Athos.   “Right before you passed out, you did know, and you didn’t say anything.”

Aramis closed his eyes, unable to hide from the truth, and Athos almost felt sorry for him- especially knowing that what he was going to say next would sting deeply. “Just like before the ambush.”

Aramis felt his heart clench, and he found it difficult to open his eyes. But when he finally did, Athos allowed him to get up. “All right, you’ve made your point,” he said, reaching out a hand so that Porthos could pull him to his feet. Then he placed a hand over his heart and bowed gently. “I can only beg for your forgiveness,” he said, with sincerity.  

“You’ll never need to beg,” stated Porthos, reaching out to grasp his shoulder.

“In fact, you don’t even have to ask,” added d’Artagnan.

“You know that,” stated Athos. “And I know it’s not our forgiveness you truly seek, but your own.” His patience was beginning to wear thin, so he took a deep breath and decided to approach this from another angle. “We’re all guilty of falling victim to our own vices, me in particular… I’m quite aware of this. But you could have been seriously injured and we would never have been able to tell because you were so caught up in your own atonement. And for that, I’m angry. We need to get over this masochistic notion that _‘one for all’_ means that we must destroy ourselves for the sake of the others.”

His frustration was escalating with almost every word he spoke, so he paused and brushed a hand down his face to regain his composure. “Perhaps this is my fault for being too lenient,” he continued, with a deep sigh. “But that little display of the penitent man was difficult to watch. So if you must put blame somewhere so you can get over this, than it shall rest on me. I’m responsible for all of you, so clear your conscious now and let me wear the guilt.” 

“I hold only myself accountable for my actions,” stated Aramis, as he raised his foot into the stirrup once again. But a hand on his arm stilled his ascent. 

“Aramis, come clean if there’s something wrong,” pleaded Porthos, tightening his grip on his friend’s arm in lieu of hauling him back down to the ground.

Aramis hung his head in frustration, but relented.  He put his foot back down and then removed Porthos’ hand from his arm.   “I would.  But there isn’t.  So can we please…”  He let his voice trail off and instead used a hand gesture to imply moving along.

“Can you ride or not?” asked Athos.

“Yes,” Aramis replied. “No need to waste any further time on my account.”

Athos shared a questioning glance with the other two musketeers, which did not go unnoticed by the Spaniard. 

“I heard what you said, and I assure you, I’m fine,” repeated Aramis.

“You are always fine,” Athos pointed out. 

Aramis gathered his reins once again, put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into his saddle. “That’s not true,” he said. Then he leaned forward to rest his elbow on his pommel as he turned to them.   “You all know me better than anyone ever has. I trust you all with my life; without question and without doubt.”

“As we feel the same with you,” interjected d’Artagnan.

“Let me finish,” stated Aramis, giving the Gascon a harsh glare. “I cherish having you all by my side more than anything in this world, and having your forgiveness grants me great comfort, but if I can not forgive myself, it is all for naught. And if I need to punish myself in order to achieve my own absolution, than I ask that you respect that as I respect each of you. This time, I may have pushed myself too far and let my guilt and stubbornness countermand my welfare, but I tell you this with the utmost sincerity… I was just tired. I am fine now. And I will not let it happen again.” Then he sat up and adjusted himself in his saddle. The ache was still present, but he felt much more alert now, so he took a deep breath and turned his horse toward the path. “Please believe me,” he said, and then he spurred his horse forward.      

D’Artagnan leaned close to his remaining brothers as the marksman rode away. “Do we trust him?”

“He’s an honourable man,” replied Porthos, glancing at him sideways with a small shrug. “But I’m still not taking my eyes off of him.”

“Well, at least he looks fit enough right now,” Athos added, as he also watched Aramis sitting tall and firm in the saddle as he rode away. “Maybe it was just exhaustion this time,” he conceded. “But perhaps another time it won’t be.”

 

**_~Finis~_ **


End file.
